


3 Cheers for Sweet Revenge

by Gnamjoon



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Cashton, Hate to Love, Loud Sex?, M/M, Muke - Freeform, but like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-16
Updated: 2015-07-16
Packaged: 2018-04-09 15:24:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4354172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gnamjoon/pseuds/Gnamjoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erm, it's me. Your upstairs neighbour, and apparently nightly supplier of audio porn.<br/>I just wanted to apologise for what has now been SIX MONTHS (you could've said something earlier!!) of a bad sleep cycle.  So, sorry. To express this, I have decided (or rather, my roommate Ashton, who is currently looking over my shoulder and is incredibly pissed off that I don't listen to him when he complains about the noise level, has  decided) that I owe you a night of super-loudness.</p><p>Just please, wait until exams are over and I have a chance to buy sound-proof headphones.<br/>Luke</p><p> </p><p>Or, the one where Michael and Calum live below Ashton and Luke, the latter of which has really loud sex on weeknights, when Michael needs to study. Also, Biceps are Calum's kryptonite</p>
            </blockquote>





	3 Cheers for Sweet Revenge

 

_"Oh yes! Oh god, please!"_

_"Fuck fuck fuck!"_

_"Harder! Harder!"_

It started as soon as he moved in. The hot guy upstairs that is, not Michael. When Michael moved in with Calum a year ago, he's pretty sure that the person living in the flat above him was Mrs MacTavish. An old lady. So Michael would be feeling considerably more grossed and/or freaked out, and definitely less aroused than he is right now, if the noises started when she was living upstairs. But still pretty pissed off.

_"Goddddddd, yesssss"_

_"Mmmmmm, that's good"_

Okay scratch that. Still _really fucking pissed off_. It's three in the morning on a TUESDAY, and  Michael's got a class that starts at seven thirty tomorrow, a 4 thousand word essay that he hasn't even fucking started due at midday, and he _really_  doesn't need to be listening to this shit right now. Or later. Or at any time at all, to be honest, because that would just be fucking creepy and Michael's totally not about that life. Except for that one time when he was six and playing hide and seek at Calum's place, and decided to hide in his mum's closet. That was pretty fucking creepy - for all parties involved.

He groans involuntarily at the memory, and the volume and intensity increase dramatically when it mingles with the sexed-up moans from upstairs. It's an exasperated reflex of course. He doesn’t really want them to hear him complain through their floor and shut the hell up.

Not _really_ \- even though he's imagined him- IT. It. He's imagined it - the confrontation - multiple times he knows that they'd probably laugh at him or they wouldn’t be able to hear his voice and then he'd never be able to leave his apartment. He wouldn't be able to go to the lectures, or the finals and then he'd get thrown out of uni, wouldn't be able to get a job and his life would be ruined. So yeah. No inter-ceiling confrontations for him.

Even though, _God_ , tonight's the loudest it's ever been. And that's saying something, considering the last girl this guy had over had the lungs of an opera singer - and was NOT afraid to use them. Oh, and two weeks ago, Michael's pretty sure that there had been paddles involved. Like, either that, or hot upstairs neighbour had invited a bro over for a totally platonic kickboxing session. In his bedroom. 

It's entirely possible, though - people grunt when they do kickboxing right?  And a bag would be the explanation for the fleshy thumps. Michael's trying to ignore that possibility though. It would mean the current star of his Organic Chemistry lecture daydreams was straight, or straight-er, and that would mean an end to what is normally quite an enjoyable class.

Sometimes, Upstairs Dude is the new TA for the class, and he just hands out test papers, his arm brushing against Michael's own tattooed one as he goes, winking while he turns to the person sitting next to him. Other times, it's a LOT less tame. He really needs to install a filter into his brain that only allows PG-Rated thoughts when he's in class though, because trying to remember the chemical compositions of mitochondria with a boner is _exceedingly_ fucking difficult.

Oh balls, it's been an hour now, and it doesn’t sound like they're anywhere near to finishing. Michael has absolutely no shame in admitting that he knows that because for the past six months, right before the banging and the groaning and the shaking stop, the upstairs hottie does a high-pitched whimper that doesn't, DOES NOT do strange things to him. No shame at all.

Michael's lying in his bed - having gotten out a bottle of cheap-ass tequila and created a drinking game out of this new bed-mate's sex noises. At this point, he knows that he has to get up in literally two hours, but he figures that maybe a drunk dissection will be hilarious. Or he'll get suspended and get banned from ever being in a lab again. Whatever. He's already drawn up the rules for the game:

One: For every second that a "GOD" is drawn out for, take as many shots

Two: That's pretty much it really, this girl has NO variety in what she verbalises during sex. Okay, well, that was a bit harsh; there are a couple of "Oh Yeeeeessss’s in there too.

Cal's out - at a bar probably, he doesn't have ANY lectures on a Wednesday, the dick - but Michael's pretty sure that he'd be able to come up with some better rules, even with this level of intoxication.

Michael is torn between hoping that it's because she's so blissed out because the sex is too good and she can't even think about anything but the supposed creator of the universe; and praying that it's actually all an elaborate plot and they're not actually having sex, it's a ruse to draw him up there so the apparent-deity with fluffy blond hair from upstairs can have his way with him. He snorts at his own thoughts. The drinking game is obviously pretty effective.

So effective, in fact, that he decides to, in the words of the immortal… _erm_ , well, Michael Clifford, to _fuck it_ and go upstairs to confront the guy of his dreams, and maybe show off some of his debating skills.

He's halfway up the stairs when he realises that he's still in his superhero pyjamas. Even worse, he's still holding the bottle of tequila when he knocks on the door. It may or may not slosh all over the peeling cream paint of the wall, and he may or may not throw the bottle down the corridor just before the door swings open with a click.

So yeah, Michael's drunk and staring right at the person who's responsible for his shitty sleeping patterns, so you'd think he'd have quite a lot of fucking words to say to the  guy. Hah. No.

Unfortunately for Michael, he's also the most attractive human being that he's seen in his ENTIRE life (and he's seen Jack Falahee in How to Get Away with Murder, so that's really fucking saying something), with the blue eyes and the shaggy blond sex hair and the lip piercing .

Fortunately, he's got a really disgruntled look on his face ( _No SHIT mate, you just interrupted what was probably a sex marathon_ , Michael thinks), and that brings his hazy mind back to what he's here for in the first place.

 Hey man, I'm Michael from the floor below. Like, right below. Specifically, right under your bedroom. As in, where you seem to have THE LOUDEST SEX ON THE PLANET! It's actually insane how fucking loud it is! I can hear everything - EVERYTHING!  It's like a non-stop porn loop playing over and _over_ and _over_! It's not even that nice to listen to, to be honest and-"

 (At this point, Michael's lying and maybe over exaggerating it a bit but he figures he has a right to because

 A) He's fairly sure that sleep deprivation cannot be good for his university career,

 B) He is SEXUALLY FRUSTRATED alright?

 And finally,

C) He has basically half a bottle of tequila in his system without having eaten anything. So he's on a roll and using sweepingly clumsy hand gestures, sue him.)   

 "Also, do you know how _fucking_ ridiculous it is to be getting laid at what is now four o'clock in the _fucking_ morning on a _fucking_ TUESDAY NIGHT?! I'm so thrilled that you maintain _such_ great relationships between your penis and other people's vaginas, but could you _please please please_ articulate it less?! Or you know, muzzle yourselves?"

 When he's done with what has probably one of the biggest confrontations of his life, Michael is breathing heavily and the floor seems to be swaying.

 But at least, he reminds himself, he has composure when the fog clears and he realises he's just made a complete arse of himself, and Upstairs Neighbour is looking both sheepish and mildly amused. So yes, Michael has overflowing buckets of poise when he blurts out "okaythat'sallthanksbyeyoucangobacktoyoursexytimesnow" and dives down the stairs. No, quite literally dives down the stairs. He trips over the broken bottle of tequila he threw over there a couple of minutes ago. Fuck.

 As he throws back an "I'm fine, man" in answer to a husky "Shit! Are you okay dude?", Michael thinks that really, he could die here, lying flat on the landing, head pounding and stomach churning. He decides to do what he likes to think is an army crawl back to is flat, though if Upstairs Neighbour's snort-chuckle…snockle - what an excellent word, he definitely has to start using that. It'll catch on.

  Michael knows this because he's a trendsetter at his uni. One hundred percent. Anyway, if Shaggy-haired Hottie's snockle is anything to go by, it's very much more of a dying worm impression rather than an army crawl.

 The worst bit is though, that he's going through his hangover phase right now, and he has to get up in about an hour and a half, so "sleeping it off" is just not an option anymore.  Technically, it could be, but Michael copes incredibly shittily with naps, so when he gets back to his flat, he just boots up his laptop, and starts writing that fucking essay. Drunk. Because he's a responsible and mature adult who’s totally got his life and shit in order. Yeah, his mum wishes, Michael snockles. (Okay, so that's actually a really gross verb. Never to be used again, he decides.)

__________________________________________________________

 When he trudges home after what has to have been the shittiest series of lectures on the _planet_ , he sees a bouquet of flowers at his door and all he can think is _Oh. Oh No_ , because the universe hates him and likes proving that pessimism is the most accurate ideology out there, so _of course_ the flowers will be from Mr Walking Orgasm. And there's a card. Like, a really posh, white card among a bouquet of fucking red roses, that probably says something along the lines of

  _Oi, you dick, thanks for cockblocking me; I will now proceed to hook myself up to a microphone in any upcoming sexcapades to annoy the SHIT out of you._

_Love,_

_The dude who totally knows you fantasise about him because you had drool on your face last night._

 

 _Fan-fucking-tastic_.

 He fumbles with his keys for about a minute (which, to be honest, is pretty fucking ridiculous. He has _one_ key. One.), and after he finally manages to get his shit together and turn the key in the lock while balancing the bouquet on his box of pizza, he trips over the welcome mat, because, as aforementioned, the universe _really fucking hates him._

His shit goes flying everywhere; the pizza box opens, and the delicious disc of cheesy goodness that was  - _is_ going to be his dinner (who gives a shit - there's a 5 minute rule for dropping food on the floor, right?) flies under the fridge, and he scrambles up, almost stepping on his laptop, because who the fuck does he think he's kidding - it's five _seconds_ and nobody wants to fucking eat whatever the hell's under that goddamned fridge as an extra pizza topping. 

Michael saves the pizza from an untimely demise, and then squishes the entire thing into his microwave because he's a fucking science major, so every available flat surface is covered in notes that he should very much start filing. He then moves back towards the entrance, picking his stuff up as he goes along. When he's procrastinated cleaning the bouquet up for a good 10 minutes and picked up literally everything else  - even the M&M that's been under the carpet for a couple of weeks now -  he finally pulls his head out of his arse and picks the damn thing up.

He pads over towards the skink, and dumps the flowers in a green tea-stained mug, before actually opening the card.

_Erm, it's me. Your upstairs neighbour, and apparently nightly supplier of audio porn._

_I just wanted to apologise for what has now been SIX MONTHS (you could've said something earlier!!) of a bad sleep cycle.  So, sorry. To express this, I have decided (or rather, my roommate Ashton, who is currently looking over my shoulder and is incredibly pissed off that I don't listen to him when he complains about the noise level, has decided) that I owe you a night of super-loudness._

_Just please, wait until exams are over and I have a chance to buy sound-proof headphones._

_Luke_

Below his signature is a scrawled **_That's fucking cheating!! It defeats the purpose of the entire thing!!_** , that's been crossed out, and Michael assumes it's Ashton, the best friend. Of Luke. The upstairs neighbour. Honestly, it's kind of creepy that Michael is _this_ glad to have a name for him now, because he thinks about him - Luke - _that_ often.

The letter is nowhere near as scathing as he'd first thought it would be, thank fuck. In fact, Luke seems really embarrassed and he even _writes_ like he's an awkward potato, and that's ridiculous because someone that hot; with that fucking _voice_ should not be feeling self-conscious about _anything._

Unfortunately, unlike Michael had sort-of hoped, the letter hadn't made him hate Luke for being an inconsiderate jerk. If truth be told, he was crushing even harder on the blond, and the daydreams he'd held at bay during this morning's lecture (exams are coming up, he can't afford to just be fantasizing about the guy upstairs and thinking about what new tattoos he'd like) come flooding into the forefront of his mind. He sets the table on autopilot, humming along to some random melody in his head as he goes.

Michael only has a slice of pizza left when he realises with an evil grin that he's got a free pass for a night of revenge - his speciality. He pulls up his phone and starts texting Cal.

__________________________________________________________

 

Exams are finally over, and Michael needs to get out of his post-whatthefuckeven _is_ thisquestion funk. He wants to simultaneously blast music as loud as he can, and trash Calum at FIFA, so he figures that now's as good a time as any to cash in on that night of extremely bad etiquette that he was promised.

 

**MESSAGE FROM: Michael**

Ayyyyyyyyyy, you ready to get your freak on? Grab as much pizza as you can carry on the way home from your bullshit lecture :))

 

**MESSAGE FROM: Calum**

Ok, first of all, you're a dick. Second of all, PSYCHOLOGY IS A FUCKING SCIENCE. And finally, you're paying me back, you shithead

 

**MESSAGE FROM: Michael**

Oh baby, keep talking dirty to me

 

**MESSAGE FROM: Michael**

pick up some movies while you're at it

 

**MESSAGE FROM: Michael**

We're gonna have as much fun as possible cockblocking these guys and not letting them sleep

 

**MESSAGE FROM: Calum**

Ok, but they're gonna be manly-man movies. None of this Mean Girls bullshit

 

**MESSAGE FROM: Michael**

Suck my dick you asshole, you love Glenn Coco as much as I do

 

**MESSAGE FROM: Calum**

Yeah yeah, pull out all of our Blink CDs - their ugly ears are gonna have to listen to Tom DeLonge and Mark Hoppus's voices until they throw up.

 

**MESSAGE FROM: Michael**

Hey! I'll have you know that Luke's ears are perfectly fucking attractive, thank you very much

 

**MESSAGE FROM: Calum**

 EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW

**MESSAGE FROM: Calum**

Got an ear fetish, have you? I always knew you were into some weird shit, Mikey

 

**MESSAGE FROM: Michael**

Hey, say what you want about the annoyingly loud sex, but there is a REASON that man gets some almost every day of the week.

 

**MESSAGE FROM: Michael**

Anyway, fantastic idea, oh roomie of mine. Maybe that can be the main experiment of your thesis;

 

**MESSAGE FROM: Michael**

How many hours of Blink-182 played at full volume will it take to turn someone into a prepster?

 

**MESSAGE FROM: Calum**

Ooooooooooh, good one, my love. Maybe I'll stay back and try to clear it up with Henshaw?

 

**MESSAGE FROM: Michael**

DON'T YOU FUCKING DARE, YOU THUNDERCUNT!!!

 

**MESSAGE FROM: Michael**

BRING ME MY PIZZA

 

**MESSAGE FROM: Calum**

Stop fucking texting me - I'm still in class!!

 

**MESSAGE FROM: Michael**

Just hurry the fuck up. I'm hungry.

 

Michael chucks his phone on his bed, where he's been lying, and hoists himself up, grumbling. Yes, revenge night is going to be both incredibly fun and incredibly satisfying, but only if Luke and Ashton are actually in their apartment. He knows he should probably go and check to make sure that they are, in fact, going to be present for this night of payback, but frankly, he's not prepared to knock on _anyone_ 's door, after the spectacular show he put on for Luke that night. 

He's bumped into Luke and who he assumes is Ashton a couple of times after that fiasco. It's mostly just been awkward encounters on the stairs - he doesn't think he's _ever_ been grateful for the fact that there's no elevator in their building before these past months. But he is. Very. Because he doesn't think he'd be able to stop himself from turning as red as his hair if he'd have to stand in a tiny box with the guy for three _seconds,_  let alone three minutes. He's barely survived the quick "Uh, hi”s and the "Um, how are you?”s with self-conscious side-shuffles up the stairs.

Also, the couple of times Ashton _has_ been there, the only thing he's done is grin at the two of them, and then explain that oh-so-conveniently he's carrying frozen goods that must be put in the freezer immediately, before basically sprinting up the stairs. Well, except for the first time they met.

That time, Ashton just gave him one of those weird bro hugs out of nowhere and whispered a _Thank FUCK you said something_ in his ear. In the middle of the stairwell. While he was carrying a shopping bag of fish.  It really wasn't weird at all, Michael notes sarcastically.

(Michael knows about the fish, because less than two hours later, the fire alarm sounded and they all had to evacuate the building because, and he quotes their landlord here, "Two huge arseholes tried to barbecue fish on their stove". The arseholes in question had black soot all over their faces, but that didn’t stop Michael from noticing the really cute blush that formed on Luke's face, and then elbowing Calum in this stomach when his cough sounded suspiciously like "whipped")

Anyway, once he's got the stereo and the Xbox set up, as well as a whole line-up of different snacks, he has a brilliant idea. It's so brilliant, in truth, that it solves two of his problems, and has an added bonus: He can do something to pass the time while Cal hurries his lazy ass home with the pizza and he can check whether or not the blokes are planning on staying in. The additional benefit of his plan is that he can make Luke slightly more uncomfortable about the entire situation.

The latter is the thing that clinches it for him, so he slides into the kitchen with his mismatched purple and green socks (What? He's channelling his inner Joker!), and rummages through what Cal likes to refer to as their Liquor Cabinet, but what is actually just a kitchen cupboard that they stuff cheap supermarket spirits into. Ironically, he finds a bottle of the exact same tequila that made a permanent dent on the carpeted stairs of their building.

 _Perfect_ , Michael thinks as he makes a grab for it. The thought is succeeded by an almost immediate _Shit!_ , because he almost drops the _super_ expensive 15-dollar bottle of Tequila on the floor, forgetting  that due to his sweater-paws, the opposable thumbs with which Mother Nature and years of evolution have gifted him with  have an extremely limited friction-based grip. As Cal likes to say repeatedly, for a student of science, he can be a _total_ dumbfuck.

 Also, Cal can't ever say anything to him, _ever,_ because even for a psychology major, it does _not_ take over half an hour to get pizza.  Whatever. It's time to carry out the master plan.

__________________________________________________________

 

Okay, so Michael chickened out. Sort of. Not really. He's still going to go through with it, he is. He's just going to take Cal with him because, let's face it, he's probably going to say something that'll get him punched in the face, and Calum makes  a _great_ human meat-shield. He's involuntarily taken many a kick in the balls for his best friend. He's great really, Michael doesn't know what he'd do without him.

He says as much when the roommate in question comes home (albeit 30 minutes late) with 6 boxes (Holy fucking shit! _Six boxes!!_ ) of both pepperoni and Hawaiian pizzas. Michael's lounging on their puke-coloured sofa, and doesn't get up to help the tanned lad as he struggles through the door, something which earns him a rather impassioned middle finger once their nightly sustenance is securely placed on the table.

"I love you too bro, you're the only one that lets me buy six pizzas." Calum finally replies with an evil grin, as he shuffles in his too-tight black skinnies to stand in front of Michael, his palm outstretched for the money that realistically, he _knows_ he's not gonna get.

"Are you _fucking kidding me?!_ " Michael bolts upright with a scowl. There is no fucking way he has enough money to pay for _six motherfucking pizzas_ , even if he wanted to. Which, to clarify, he doesn't. At all.

When this information is relayed to his _former_ best friend, he's met with a cocked hip, and a mum-face that could give both their mothers a run for their money. "Michael Gordon Clifford, you are paying me back or so help me god-"

"Why the fuck would I do that? I never agreed to pay for them!"

"Well, dickwad, if you check your messages, you didn't say _no_ , either, so technically that's agreement via omission. You owe me like, sixty bucks. They're larges." Calum makes grabby hands gestures, and to Michael, it's the universally understood symbol of _I'm a poor broke college student that likes to mooch off the equally unfortunate_.

"That's not a fucking thing, you arse! There's no way that's a fucking thing - you're so full of shit!"

"It is _so_ a fucking thing you asshat, fucking google it!" They're both getting really impassioned here, (and justifiably, too - pizza and money are serious business) and now they're definitely both screaming loud enough for Luke and Ashton to hear them upstairs, which is an excellent start to their evening, Michael thinks, pleased.

He bats Cal's hands away as he gets up, muttering " _So_ not a thing" as he goes to grab the bottle of tequila that's been sitting next to what is now a half-empty bowl of crisps on the coffee table. He's recycled a bow from some leftover Christmas wrapping that Calum hoards like a fucking dragon ("It’s _reusable_! _And_ we're broke as shit! You'll be on your knees _begging_ for some when it comes to the holidays"), and slapped it on the front, conveniently covering up the price tag that he doesn't have the nails to remove.

He cuts off his friend's retort by pushing him out the door and up the stairs without explaining a single thing. He's punk rock, he can do shit like that. He squares his shoulders and clears his throat (and okay, maybe does a quick fringe-check); his trusty companion's facial expression connotes that he thinks that Michael is something _decidedly_ not punk rock. Or anything as badass as that. Jealous prick.

He must say that out loud because he receives a swift punch in the gut that proves that the aforementioned trusty companion is as strong as he is muscly, because he's still doubled over when the door from his nightmares and cringe-attacks opens, and Luke's incredibly attractive face appears in the door.

"Erm, hi?" Okay, so he's possibly even more attractive when Michael's not intoxicated, there's no denying it - not that he was even trying in the first place. He's chewing his lip ring, his blue eyes darting between the two of them confusedly like the adorable little noodle that he is and - SHIT, he hasn't answered yet.

"Um, well, I thought I'd cash in that revenge coupon tonight." Smooth, Michael, he cringes at himself even as he speaks.

"So, uh, I thought you should know that, so you can, you know, do your duty and sit in your apartment and feel the pain."  At this, Luke grimaces, and he looks like he's going to start apologising again, so Michael powers through, "So, yeah, we thought we'd bring you a present to help you get through the night. It certainly helped us."

Calum snorts, and adds "Yeah, we recommend creating a drinking game, you know, take a shot every time the headboard bangs type of thing."

Luke's eyebrow twitches upwards, and he opens his mouth to say something, but before he can (the Universe really doesn’t want him to talk, apparently), a shirtless Ashton swoops in from inside the apartment and snatches the bottle out of Michaels hands, "I'll be taking _that_ , thank you!" He winks at Calum, who kind of just stares at the guys biceps. "I don't know about you lot, but I don't think Lukey here deserves the help. I'm the quiet roommate, so sorry, but this thing is all for me. If your shagging is as loud as Luke's, I'm gonna need all the alcoholic earplugs I can get!"

At that, both Michael starts spluttering, and Calum is pulled out of his bicep-induce stupor.

"Oh, _UGHHHHH_! Are you kidding?! That's disgusting? Michael?! Gross! I think I need brain bleach!"

"Ew ew ew ew! Please no, get that fucking image out of my head, that’s just…blegh. No. Never."

At their sort-of neighbours' amused faces, Michael realises the implications of what they've been saying. "Shit, no! We didn’t mean it like we were going to do _that_. No, we're just gonna blast some music while we yell at each other and play FIFA. Maybe watch Monty Python and the Holy Grail really loudly, eat _six fucking boxes_ of pizza." Michael turns to glare at Calum, but the effort is wasted, because Calum’s ogling Ashton again. “That’s it. I swear. He's just my ugly-ass roommate." 

A weird look is passed between the occupants of the apartment upstairs, Michael thinks, but he can't really understand what it means - the friend that normally does that for him currently appears to be trying to either establish what Ashton would look like with the glasses that are hooked to the hem of his sweatpants, or possibly trying to count the many ripples on his abdomen.

 (Yeah, he's noticed - he has _eyes_. It's more Calum's thing, though, to be honest. He prefers gangly boys with lip rings and beanies and fluffy hair).

Either way, his body-language translator is otherwise occupied (read _trying not to orgasm on the spot_ ) so Michael just assumes it's a _Jesus fucking Christ these guys are mentally deficient_ look _._

"Hey, maybe you'd like to join us? Let Luke suffer alone?" Calum eagerly asks Ashton's six pack.

"Pathetic" Michael coughs quietly, and he promptly gets his foot crushed by Calum's, which, unfortunately is armoured in a layer of rubber and leather, more commonly known as a Doc Marten. Needless to say, he's going to be blaming any future video game failures on the fact that he's a helpless cripple.

A smirk appears on Ashton's face, creepily similar to the one Calum gave Michael earlier on, as he looks at Luke. Luke, conversely, has a look of resigned dread, and doesn't even blink when Ashton slides the glasses on, and announces in what is definitely a flirtier voice than before,

"You know, I'll think I'll take you up on that. Luke deserves to suffer.”

He shifts his 10000 mega-watt grin to Michael, "That is, if you don't mind, of course."

Michael is totally up for it, which he repeats to the group. And his enthusiasm for Ashton joining them has nothing to do with the fact that he very much would like to keep his other foot un-mangled. Not at all.

 Though, speaking of which, his assailant and possibly former roommate (Michael needs to put ads on craigslist - stat), just put both his hands in his pockets. While wearing skinny jeans. If that's not the universal _shit, I've got a boner_ course of action, Michael doesn’t know what is.

Just in case it wasn't already painfully obvious to EVERYONE that he had a hard-on, Calum also moves himself so he's slightly behind Michael. Subtle isn't even in his vocabulary, let alone his middle name. _What a shitbrick._

"Ashtooooon. Whyyyyy? You're the world's shittiest roommate ever, I swear to fuck. I don't even know why I'm friends with you. What a cocksucker." Luke's vocal expression matches Michael’s facial one - they're both so completely done with their best friends right now that it isn't even funny.

"They say that's what I do best Lukey" Ashton retorts with a wink, running his hand through his mop of curly hair. Michael swears he hears Calum groan softly, and that's it. The end of their friendship, right there. Luke also seems to be aware of what Ashton's doing, because he throws one of the most exasperated looks Michael's ever seen at his friend.

This isn't going _too_ badly, Michael thinks. Their mutual axe murderer-ish tendencies regarding their so-called best friends will make for great bonding if this night goes the way that it looks like it's going to (and that is with Ashton and Calum boning each other into oblivion).

He shifts his attention back to Luke, whose still licking and biting at that goddamned lip ring, and Michael doesn't think he's ever been more jealous of an inanimate object in his - admittedly quite short - life. It's like fucking torture watching him, because every detail that Michael notices just makes him _fonder_ of the guy. Like the way his brow is slightly furrowed now that he's pouting, or the fact that his lower lip that's jutting out is just begging to be kissed and - _fuck_ he's done it again, they're in a middle of a conversation for fucks sake!

"-be down in half an hour maybe? Just let me have a shower and get changed." 

Michael just nods, guessing the beginning of the phrase he just missed. Calum does the same, even though the expression on his face says that he'd really rather Ashton _not_ change, and that he'd love to have the previously mentioned shower _with him_.

But sadly for Luke and Michael, Calum doesn't blurt any of that out loud. It's a disappointment really. The comedy value when he'd realise what he'd said would be incalculable.

They exchange a hasty _S'laters_ with Ashton, and a _Sorry about the Tequila-thieving roommate_ with Luke before walking back down to their flat.

__________________________________________________________

 

By the time Ashton rings their doorbell half an hour later, Michael is ready to straight up murder Calum. Seriously. He has to put down a knife to answer the door.

When they got back to their own apartment, a switch had flipped in Calum, it was like Michael's best friend was suddenly replaced with some sort of Mum-bot on steroids.

The only things coming out of his mouth were "Jesus CHRIST Mike, you're a fucking slob - clean this shit up!" and "Christ Michael, would it kill you to wipe the counter?” not to mention Michel's personal favourite:

"Why is there a fucking tube of Smarties under the sofa? Is it ful-THAT IS THE MOST DISGUSTING THING I HAVE EVER SEEN, HOW OLD ARE THEY?!"

So yeah, the sound of their doorbell squealing is very much welcomed, though Michael's not sure for how long; Calum whilst he's on the pull is insufferable - even worse than when he's not in control of the remote.

Michael opens the door, and Ashton walks in, barefoot, wearing sweats and a homemade AC/DC singlet that's missing a _hell_ of a lot of fabric. He's dressed casual, relaxed. Normal.

When Calum walks into the living room 10 minutes later, after Michael's brought some beers out (and put the bottle of tequila back in its cabinet) is dressed anything but.

He's in even _tighter_ skinnies than before (something which should really not have been possible) and his trademark Nirvana shirt, his black hair quiffed to make him look at least five centimetres taller. Michael has to physically restrain himself from groaning because both of the lads are making sticky-eyes at each other, and this is supposed to be _his_ night, for fuck's sake.

 He tries to diffuse the tension by cranking up the volume on the playlist he's got on shuffle, and loudly exclaiming, "How's about we play some FIFA?"

He's met with a sidelong glance and a shrug from Calum, and an embarrassed grin from Ashton, who runs a hand through his impossibly curly hair, "Um, yeah, about that…" he trails off, and Michael and Calum stare at him expectantly. “Well, I just…don't like it?"

Michael clutches his heart and gasps dramatically, "You don't…like FIFA?" He utters it like it's an alien concept, which to be fair, it kind of is. He staggers around as if he's been stabbed and/or like he's had a couple more drinks than the beer he's been nursing. He collapses on the sofa with a melodramatic sigh as he waits for Calum to join in with the act, "I thought we could have been friends! You were on the bro-train!"

Calum hesitates for a second, so Michael cracks open his eyes and gives him his _Are-you-fucking-kidding-me-right-now, you-piece-of-shit?_ glare, which gets him to launch into the act that they've pulled only a few times before (because _Seriously?_ Who the fuck doesn’t like FIFA?).

 Calum turns to look at Ashton dead in the eye and says, "Sorry mate, your gonna have to get off now." Ashton grins and Michael chokes on his beer as Calum lets that hang. "The bro-train has no space nor time for those who have not been brainwashed by the addictive series of pixels to which Mikey dedicates his life."

Michael is now torn between wanting to punch the flirty peace of shit in the face, and wanting to applaud him for the fantastic euphemism that only a true genius could have slipped into conversation. He ends up doing neither, because he figures Calum's crimes sort of balance each other out.  Not that anything he does actually matters when Ashton's in the room, though.

 Their guest does a weird high-pitched giggle (which is oddly adorable, if Michael's being completely honest), and then wiggles his eyebrows at Calum (who definitely swoons - there's even a little swaying on the spot).

"Well, I mean…I haven't tried playing in a while, so…"  Calum's eyes light up at Ashton's admission, and that's when Michael realises that he's not gonna get _any_ Xbox time tonight. Fuck.

__________________________________________________________

 

It's been three hours, and Michael's on his phone in the kitchen, avoiding what is a truly disgusting display of two _grown ass_ fucking men dancing around each other.

At this point, he's not sure if it's for his sake and they can't really bring it down to the "just bros who don't want to suck each other's dicks" level, if they want to try and make him puke, or if they're just weirdos who enjoy pretending to teach/learn FIFA, as if it's the modern day mini-golf equivalent. Michael sniffs. It's sacrilege.

On the plus side, though, they've barely touched any of the barrage of snacks that he set out - so all of that's his for the taking. He's not sure about the pizzas though, because he left them in the living room with college students who are playing video games and drinking beer - the three things kind of go hand in hand.

Michael walks into the living room to make sure that none of his darling pixels are having to witness any sexcapades. What he finds is so cheesy it's almost cute - but mostly ridiculous.

Ashton is basically sitting in Calum's lap, the latter' arms swapped around the former's. They're holding the controller _together_ , a perfect geek version of the golf club movie cliché, only this one has a smaller penis to butt distance.

They're both laughing _way_ too loudly for it to be a hundred percent legitimate, so either they're trying to impress each other (which is pretty likely), or Michael just missed a passionate make-out (also just as likely).

He's just here to check in on the pizzas make sure his babies are still warm and gooey and ready for immediate consumption. That's all he wants to be able to do, without being assaulted by a tsunami of couple-iness and sexual tension. Yeah. Not possible.

The two locusts have eaten three of the six large pizzas, which is pretty impressive, considering the level of hand-eye coordination the game needs. The TV flashes with different views of the game, and Michael wants to scoff at the team Calum's put together (Seriously - he should know better, he's not going to beat _anybody_ with that line-up), before he realises that it's the two lads against the computer and a randomised team. The guy is so whipped, Michael's surprised he’s not wearing a collar.

Ew. Not a mental image he needs right now. Or ever, really. That image should not even be considered.

He looks around, assessing the damage that they've done, before returning to the kitchen for another beer. On his way, he turns the music up - Kellin Quinn's voice may not block out the carnage that's happening on the footie field (the lads have abandoned it in favour of crisps), but it sure as hell helps.

They've barely touched any of the drinks, which is also pretty good - especially because Calum is a drunk absolutely _zero_ boundaries.  Like, none.

One time, he literally tried to start a conversation about the weather with Michael, whilst the other boy was pressed against a wall in some club snogging a girl. He then proceeded to steal said girl away from Michael and lengthen his best friend's dry spell by another week. Top quality friend, that one.

An intoxicated Calum with a hot boy that has been flirting back all night would almost certainly lead to them fucking on their creaky sofa, and Michael in a duvet cocoon in his room with his door closed and headphones on, trying not to let his roommate scar him permanently.

__________________________________________________________

 

That's more or less the position he's in an hour later, though with a few crucial differences; the main one being that he _can't find his fucking headphones_ , and thus, is having to rely on the relatively loud, unintelligible words of a Fall Out Boy song that Michael's pretty sure is his favourite, to block out the sound of his roommate and neighbour getting it on.

He really hopes that they'll have the sense to move it into Calum's room pretty soon, because spunk on the sofa is a bitch to clean up (as Calum very well knows - it was the first time that Michael got laid in this apartment, and mistakes were made, okay?) and also, Calum's room doesn’t share an (albeit very thin) wall with Michael's.

Another reason for wanting them to shift out of the living room is the fact that he's absolutely _starving_ because he only managed to grab _one_ fucking slice of pizza before the other two converged on the both the Xbox and the food, cutting him off from what would have been the highlights of his night.  Next time, he should give Cal some cash for the bar, and play co-op with some friends online.

 So he's hungry and thirsty (the diuretic capabilities of the alcohol are already kicking in) and also, pretty cold, even though he's in long skinnies, a too-big jumper and wrapped up in his duvet. Great.

Even better, there's a gap in the songs, and Michael can hear Calum's groans and some slurping sounds and _UGH_ , NO. He should NOT be being forced into listening to his best friend getting sucked off. Nobody should.

He wriggles off the bed, clutching the duvet with one hand, and grabbing a flip flop in the other. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and this is no exception. He waddles to the door, taking a deep breath. There's no going back now.

He scrunches his eyes shut, and wrenches the door open. Immediately the sounds that he really does _not_ need to fucking hear seem ten times louder, and it's just like the Luke situation all over again.

 Only this time, he throws a shoe into Calum's face, screaming, "CAN YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP?!  NOBODY WANTS TO HEAR HOW GREAT AT SEX BOTH OF YOU ARE! I GET IT! LET ME PLAY MY FUCKING XBOX AND GO TO YOUR ROOM!"

Michael cringes when a _pop_ sounds, followed by Ashton calling out, “Sorry, mate!" in a thick voice.

Calum, by contrast, just yells, "Fuck _off_ , Michael! I was _so fucking close_ , and you- _mmmbthhhpt"_

They've got each other’s tongues down their respective throats again, something which Michael’s fairly certain Ashton initiated to get Calum to shut the fuck up.

It worked, but Michael's not sure he'll be trying that method out next time Calum wants to talk about how Psychology is a _real_ science. (I mean, of course it is, but Michael's never gonna tell Calum that. It's too much fun to watch him get pissed off)

Michael hears giggles fading off, and a door slam, so he reckons it's safe to open his eyes to the remains of their living room.

As he walks towards it, he realises that he's seen worse - only one bowl of crisps is toppled over,  the pizza boxes are still on the coffee table, the couch has only shifted back a couple of centimetres at an angle, and the only articles of clothing that are lying around are Calum's shirt and Ashton's sweats.

 _Gross_ , but at least there's no cummy boxers anywhere. Michael thinks he would have actually thrown up, in that occasion.

Because he's a good flatmate, he starts cleaning their mess up, which may or may not involve picking up handfuls of crisps and shoving them in his mouth.  What it definitely includes, though, is figuring out a way to move the sofa to its original place without breaking his back or letting go of the only thing standing between him and the chill of the outside world. The latter is definitely the most important.

The pizzas  have probably gone a bit cold by now, so he does the usual and sticks them in the microwave, leaving him enough time to hip-bump the sofa into submission and set up the Xbox for a new game - maybe even grab the bottle of tequila that Ashton oh-so-kindly returned to them. Beer and pizza tastes lots better, so he'll bring that out, but a bit of heavy liquor wouldn't go amiss. He's playing on Calum's account anyway - the idiot forgot to log out, so playing drunk and failing miserably isn't going to ruin _his_ reputation.

He's flopped on the couch, controller on his lap, bottle of beer on the coffee table and a huge slice of pizza in his hand, about to take a bite when-

_"Oh God, Ash please!"_

_"Shit, Cal, that's so good!"_

For fucks sake.

__________________________________________________________

 

Michael can tell that when Luke opens his door, he's not expecting a ketchup-haired, slightly drunk duvet-monster holding the mythical bottle of tequila, 3 boxes of pizza and an assortment of savoury snacks. He can also tell that Luke is incredibly amused at the aforementioned duvet-monster's expression when it groans, "Please….save me….I'll do _anything."_

Luke moves out of the doorway and Michael stumbles gratefully inside. He's wearing black skinnies (that seems to be a trend amongst almost all of his acquaintances…strange) and a grey singlet (which, in Michael's opinion, shows off his fantastic shoulders). His hair is ruffled from what Michael hopes wasn't sleep, and his blue eyes are as blue as ever.

The apartment's laid out pretty much exactly the same as his and Calum's, only its marginally neater, and a lot more colourful. The walls, of course, are as thin as the rest of the buildings, which means that Luke has being hearing the same assortment of moans (both from Cal and Ashton, and, currently, Vic Fuentes) that Michael has, though at a slightly lower intensity.

"Is this what it was like, when you, um…heard me...y'know?" Luke blurts out, after offering Michael their (admittedly much less puke-coloured) sofa. He's blushing again and Michael has to start naming Folie à Deux tracks alphabetically to stop himself from leaving his cocoon and reaching over and pinching Luke's cheek like some seventy year-old great aunt. Cos that would be _really_ sexy, huh.

He finds himself blushing too, "It was, ah…worse, I guess?" Luke turns twenty shades redder and Michael would really very much like to find out if he's a full-body blusher, and maybe kis-Right.  The Conversation. Socialise with the cute boy, don't just stare at him. "Not that you, uh, didn't make great sex noises to, I mean, I'm sure you were great at, uh, sex, but like, you were right above my room, and uh, there was headboard-banging and no music and…" He trails off when Luke raises an eyebrow.

"I make great sex noises?" he asks incredulously, leaning closer to Michael from his adjacent seat on the couch. "You were listening?"

 _Fuck_.  "Uh, well, it was kind of hard not to? I don't need to tell you how thin the walls are, and are you serious right now? That's all you picked up from what I said?" Michael finds it really hard to stay defensive when fucking _Luke_ is biting that goddamned lip ring and looking up at him through his lashes, with his blush completely gone and a seductive look on his face and _JESUS H CHRIST_ he needs to start paying attention to life in general because Luke was speaking. "Uh sorry, what was that?"

The look completely disappears, and Luke tenses up again when he says, "Um, never mind. D'you wanna go into my room and watch some Netflix? It's quieter in there and I don-" He gets cut off by a particularly loud cry of _Right there, Ash, yes!_ , and they both lurch towards his room, dying to block out their friends having sex as much as possible.

Luke makes it relatively easily, due to the fact that he's in skinnies and all, with no cumbersome fucking _duvet_ to trip him up. Twice. By the time he actually makes it to Luke's room, the guy is just laughing at him from his bed, and Michael's pretty sure he heard Ashton find Calum's prostate. Again, something he could have lived his life perfectly well without knowing. (Though, if he's being honest, Cal would have told him later anyway.)

Also, yes, he's pretty grossed out by the fact that he's listening to his best friend have what seems to be the best shag of his life, but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't slightly turned on. Just a little, of course (He's at half mast, but he's got the duvet around himself so nobody needs to know).

Luke pats the bed beside him once Michael turns around from closing the door behind him, and he takes Luke up on the offer, occupying half of the King-sized bed, what with his (admittedly not as long as his handsome host's) legs and the duvet that he now cannot drop under _any circumstances._

They kind of just stare at each other before Michael decides to break the ice, "So this is the legendary bed, huh? Where it all happened?"

Luke, surprisingly, doesn't look at all flustered when he answers, "Yup", popping the _p_ , "This is where I hold all the orgies - where all my _sexcapades_ happen."

 He does air quotations at that last bit, just in case Michael isn’t incredibly aware of the fact that Luke is using his words from what is now arguably the night where he made the smartest drunk decision of his life; past, present, and future. (What? He wanted to get into Luke's pants - they're in his bedroom now, and Michael figures that that's close enough).

Michael's nervous laugh dissolves into a full bout of hysterics as soon as Luke joins in. He's got one of those infectious laughs - the ones where the person can just be smirking at the most stupid thing in the world, but you can't help yourself - you explode with a snort, and can't stop until 3 hours later. Yet another thing that makes Michael want to simultaneously punch Luke in the face and kiss him all over.

__________________________________________________________

 

They made a dash for the pizza and tequila a couple of songs ago, timing their sprint to the screamo part of King For a Day, which more or less covered up the sounds of Cal and Ash. (Seriously, how the _fuck_ are they still going at it? It's bloody heroic, that's what it is)

So now they're lying with their heads hanging off of Luke's bed, pizza completely scarfed down, tequila bottle half-finished and Netflix abandoned. Michael got rid of the duvet right around the time where Luke (and the temperature, of course) got a little too hot to handle.

 Halfway through their Sense8 marathon, the absolute wanker had the _nerve_ to declare that his skinnies were too tight, and just started unbuckling his belt while still on the bed - worming around and messing up the TMNT sheets. (Seriously?!?! Is this guy even real?).

He'd stripped literally two centimetres away from Michael's duvet barrier (which should now really be renamed Boner-Hider), and then walked in his boxers (Jesus fucking _Christ_ ) over to the dresser to pull on a pair of loose sweats that does _literally nothing_ to hide the outline of his dick. It's out, it's proud, and it's fucking huge.

Another progression in their pseudo-relationship is that they're touching each other's hair (Though it's mainly Luke touching Michael's, so the latter is glad that dicks aren't in their peripheral line of sight because _hell-o Lucas, how have you discovered my kink so quickly_ would be a conversation his dick would start) and that they've just kind of admitted simultaneous defeat on FIFA. Because _Luke_ 'sthe sore loser, not Michael, and _Luke_ ’sthe one who lost two games in a row, not Michael. He figures that they're both drunk enough that he can convince both himself and Luke that that's what happened. Fingers crossed.

So yeah, the hair petting feels pretty good, especially with the tequila in his system, so he moves a little closer to look at Luke, both heads turned to each other and just hanging off the edge of the bed. Michael nudges his head closer and closer with every brush of Luke's hand, until he realizes he's probably too close.

 His eyes flicker down to the other boy's mouth (He's licking his goddamned lip ring _again_ ) and suddenly his head's moving once more, but he's not the boy that's trying to get closer to the other, and it takes him about three seconds to realize that it's Luke; Luke's the one pulling Michael towards him with the other boy's hair, Luke who is pressing his lips against Michaels. Luke whose totally figured out the whole hair kink thing, because he keeps tugging at Michael's hair, eliciting small moans, which Michael wants to be mad about, but really can't because _Jesus Christ_ , he's kissing Luke _Fucking_ Hemmings, _Holy Shit_.

He's kissing Luke Hemmings, and it's bloody fantastic, their lips are moving together frantically, a little uncoordinated because of the alcohol in their systems, but Luke's lips are soft and smooth and fill Michael's stomach full of butterflies (though it's probably, y'know, something else) and _god fucking damn it_ it's probably the best kiss he's ever had despite all of that.

 

__________________________________________________________

 

The next morning is really great, Michael thinks. He just hangs out with Luke at the other boy's apartment, and just chat about regular stuff and try to remember all the stuff that they told each other the night before.

Michael also finally gets that proper FIFA tournament that he's been dying for since exams finished (though slightly more sober than he was anticipating), but instead of it being coupled with crisps and beer and coke and pizza, it's with waffles and chopped fruit and whipped cream and hot chocolate. In his hungover and post morning-sex sleepy state, Michael can attest to it being an infinitesimally better morning than he expected.

It only gets better later on, when he and Luke are cuddled up on the sofa, arms around each other, but eyes still on the TV screen and controllers still in hands when Ashton and Calum decide to treat them to the final leg of their walk of shame.

Except, well, they're not really shameful. Both of them are half naked, Calum's in black boxers (Thank God he's wearing _at least_  those) and Ashton's shirtless, and both seem to have an extraordinary amount of hickeys all over their bodies - like, all over. As in, Michael's pretty sure he sees one on Ashton's ankle.  Fucking weird, but he's not judging. He's got one on the inside of his elbow.

Anyway, so as last night's marathoners come in, Michael and Luke silently decide that the only appropriate response is to pause the game and wolf-whistle them as their ex-best friends walk through the doorway and into the kitchen, presumably to get a glass of water.

They’re met with four middle fingers, and Ashton scoffing, "Cut it out you dickheads, your headboard is what finally woke us up this morning Hemmings, so you can fucking shut your mouth."

As Luke blushes and burrows his head into his shoulder, and Ashton and Calum stumble on top of them to steal the Xbox controllers, Michael can't help but think this is the start of something, to quote James Corden, _Lobstromonous._

**Author's Note:**

> Erm, Hi? This is my first work, (ever) so feedback would be greatly appreciated  
> I really hope you enjoyed it  
> feel free to message me on [ tumblr](http://i-have83protons-and-igivenoshits.tumblr.com) so we can cry together about this fucking band :')


End file.
